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THE WEAK FLAME OF THE candle snuffed out. A thin dark wisp ribboned upward, then faded.
Elizabeth’s throat burned with the dread. She lifted her gaze to the fireplace and stared at the last glow of the embers. The cold floor bit into her backside. She would not, however, move farther from the little light she had, for even now, shadows shifted in the corners.
What would they do to her when the darkness completed the night?
She shivered. She pulled the red and blue squared quilt up to her neck.
How could she have been so worried about food as to lock herself away with no thought to warmth or light? Could she take apart some of the furniture to burn?
‘Tis not like you to damage another’s property.
Besides, she had no tools other than her hands, and such noise would awaken the woodsman before she had ever fired the wood to light.
That left her with only one choice.
Her gut wrenched sideways. She forced herself to her feet and crept to the bedroom door.
She had not been happy when he announced he had brought a mattress from upstairs. It meant she could not slip out early in the morning before he awoke. Now, she was more concerned with having light than leaving.
She leaned her ear against the wood. She heard gentle snoring on the other side.
She opened the door a crack. Something reared upward at her feet. She gasped.
Fingal.
He whined and wagged his tail. Elizabeth patted the dog’s head. She opened the door further.
The smell of porridge eased into her nose and set her stomach to growling. Fingers of light stretched and grabbed for her on the worn, wooden floor. She tiptoed along the lit coils, while her feet dodged the quilt trailing at her feet.
The woodsman moaned.
Elizabeth froze. Her pulse battered into her throat.
He fishtailed to face the fireplace, then settled back into his rest.
Should she risk going further? What if he awoke? And yet, she had no wish to go back to a cold, dark room without something with which to warm and light her way.
She gave him a wide berth. She crouched before the pile of firewood to the right of the fireplace. She reached forward.
The smell of wood smoke and stagnant water rushed her nose. The woodsman’s arm strangled her waist. The fear washed her from head to toe.
He hauled her backward. Her back slammed against his chest.
She screamed. She thrashed her legs. She pushed against his arms.
To her right, Fingal bayed.
“’Twas not enough ye had to take the best of the food.” His hot breath burned her ear. “Now ye take all my wood as well?”
The wood.
She grabbed a hold of the log at her side and heaved it upward. Fingal’s barking hit a feverish pitch. She twisted and swung the log against the woodsman. Her fingers jarred and numbed. A strangle of pain coursed from his throat. The log clattered to the floor. He let her go.
She scrambled to the side. Her lungs fought for air. She turned.
He was doubled over. His right hand clenched his left shoulder. Fingal licked his face. He shoved the dog aside. Moisture pooled in the lashes brushing his cheeks.
Elizabeth had given the man a good wallop, but she was hardly strong enough to cause such misery.
“Lass, ye are a warrior at heart.” The words squeezed through his teeth.
Her? A warrior? Not so.
Scared witless? Yes.
“I would nae wish to face ye in a battle.”
“Why did you grab me?”
“I dinna wish ye to go away before I got a look at that quilt.”
She eyed the bedroom door.
“Ye will nae make it. I have won battles in worse pain than this.” His breaths slowed to short bursts. He lifted his hand from his shoulder and held it outward. “The quilt. Let me see it.”
She had little choice but to comply. After all, ‘twas his, and he could take it from her easily enough. She was actually rather surprised he had not done so already.
She pulled it from her shoulders. A rush of cold air banked her neck. She shivered despite Josué’s coat.
The woodsman ran gentle, light fingers over one square and then another. He slipped his hand down the white separating stripes. He turned the corner over.
The red backing fired hotter in the fireplace light. He worked his mouth a full minute before the words came out. “Where did ye find it?”
“In the downstairs bedroom.”
The relief softened the man’s face and eyes. For a minute, Elizabeth thought he was going to kiss the quilt and hug it to his chest.
He held it toward her. A smile eased to his lips and wrinkled his eyes. “Ye may take it back now.”
For some reason, she could not move.
He eased to his knees, slung the quilt outward, and caped her shoulders with it. She grabbed the edges, being careful to avoid his fingers.
His smile slipped away. He lifted a clenched fist to his mouth. A cough was coming back. He rolled to his knees, grabbed the table’s edge, and stood. He turned to the fireplace and pulled a long rod outward.
“Why is the quilt important?” she asked.
His voice choked against the impending battle. “Mama was to leave the red quilt here on the main bed as a way of saying that the rest of the family had left of their ain free will, not because they had been captured by Indians.”
Her stomach twisted. “Are Indians that close?”
“They used to be.” He jerked the tea kettle from the hook, shoved the rod back over the middling fire, and spun around to the table. He poured the water into the cup. “Not so much anymore. But they can get a mind to if they wish.”
“So this means your family is alright?” she asked.
“Nae.” He threw the tea ball into the hot liquid. “It means they left of their ain free will. It does no mean they are necessarily safe, and I still dinna know where they have gone.” He sat in a chair at the far end of the table and turned a hard eye at her. “Go back to the room. ‘Tis still some hours before daylight.”
She pushed herself to her feet. “May I take some wood?”
“Ye are free to sleep where ye wish, but ye may no take the wood. ’Tis barely enough to warm me this night.”
“But ‘tis cold.” And dark.
“Canna be helped. I have to stay warm or this cough will kill me. Ye are welcome to stay out here. I can bring the mattress from the bedroom if ye like.”
“’Tis unseemly for us to be in the same room at night.”
“’Tis nae one around to know.”
“I will know.”
He frowned. “Ye canna take the wood. I have to survive this cough. Too many lives are at stake.”
Lives? What about hers?
Her gaze bounced to the logs. Should she risk it? After all, he had a sore shoulder now, and the cough was weakening him.
Deep blue eyes speared her. “Ye will nae get far with it.”
Maybe not. But she had to make the effort.
She lunged. She hoisted two logs upward. She whirled around.
He stood in her way.
The frustration shook her.
He pulled the wood from her arms. “I am sorry, Lass.” He tossed it back to the pile. “I wish there was another way.”
“’Tis not about other ways. You are just a selfish man.” She rushed around him and into the bedroom. She slammed the door and turned the key in the lock.
The dark suffocated her.
On the other side of the door, Fingal barked.
She shored the quilt up to her shoulders. She had thought, as he looked at the quilt and then wrapped it back around her, that he had a kinder side.
Then, he had denied her the wood.
She spun around and hurried to the fireplace. She grabbed the poker and stirred the coals. A bit of light fired outward. It would not, however, last her the night.
I have to see at least a sliver of light.
Or, she had to for as long as she could. She hauled the quilt around her shoulders. She lowered to the floor. The cold twisted into her.
She eased her finger past the quilt. She signed herself with a cross.
“Heavenly Father,” she whispered. “You sent that man to help me bury Josué. I know not why, for he is violent and filled with war.” She squeezed her lids tight against the water seeping between her lashes. “And I will not question Your will. But I do pray You will keep some of the light alive this night, and in the morning help me leave here, or the woodsman may well kill me in a fit of temper.”
And she doubted he would bother with a burying.
––––––––
THOMAS AWOKE TO A RAPIDLY cooling room, a thin smell of porridge in the air, and the house shrouded in an odd quiet.
Had he not stirred since the lass had gone into her room?
He creaked his frame upward. His left shoulder rolled into a leaden throb despite the sling he had worn last night. He cradled the arm against his waist and crawled to the fireplace. He threw the last two logs onto the fire and stood. He turned, made his way to the front window, and pulled the tan, heavy winter curtains back.
Snow banked against the trees and the creek. It had not yet breached the porch, but still, nae one would leave that day and get far.
That accounted for the quiet.
He would have to forge his way to the barn in a bit to check on Dominic, to fill the trough with more hay, and to break the ice in the trough so the horse would have water. He also needed more firewood.
Ach! He was a one-armed man at best, a walking corpse at worst if he could not control the cough. Dominic he could manage. Gathering firewood, he could not. Which meant only one thing.
He had to enlist her help.
The idea gnawed his bones. ‘Twas not just that she was French, but that she was so combative. After two years of bloody war, he just wanted peace before he went to his end. He looked at the bedroom door.
At one time he would have had little trouble persuading her to help him. What had happened to that man? Could he find the charming Thomas McQueen that had gotten him out of scrapes with his mother? The one that had wooed Catharine?
One thing was certain, he had better try if he was to have her help that day. She may well stand between him and certain death if he did not.
He lowered his gaze. A folded letter lay before the door. He stepped past the table. A wall of cold air slammed him, but he forced his way through and lifted the paper.
Interesting. The lass could not only speak the English, fluently at that, but she could read and write it as well. And she obviously had paper and ink in the room with her, but whether ‘twas her own, or whether she had taken it from his maither’s desk, he knew not. He scanned the words.
Fingal was with her in the room, so he was not to worry.
Ach! He now had not only to convince her to help him, but he had to get the dog out before he made a mess of the room.
He rapped his knuckles on the door. “Lass, have ye looked out the window? The snow is too deep for men and beasties this morning. Neither of us is going anywhere.”
Feet pattered to the front window. A gasp.
His heart sank. Why he knew not.
“I have some oatmeal warming in the coals,” he said. “Ye are welcome to come out here and have some with me.”
“I have plenty of food in here for today.”
That had not worked well.
“If ye come out, we can get some firewood.”
Fingal whined.
“At the very least ye need to open the door so Fingal can come out. He needs to go outside and relieve himself.”
The dog pawed beneath the wood. The key turned.
The door opened a crack. Fingal’s nose pushed through. The lass’ eyes, rimmed with dark circles, floated above the dog’s head. All that black hair tumbled about the red and blue quilt squares.
Fingal nosed his way through and raced for the front door.
She pointed at Thomas’ bandaged arm. “Is that my fault?”
“Not entirely.” He shrugged at the lie. “’Tis an old injury that comes back now and then to fret me. The cold weather has aggravated it. ‘Tis why I will need help with the wood.”
“But I did not help matters by hitting it?”
“Nae, but . . .” He shrugged again. ‘Twas all he could seem to do at the moment.
Behind him, Fingal scratched at the door.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
He had to admit, she looked truly mortified at what she had done. He also realized, in that moment, that the lass hid very little with her eyes. At least it made her easier to read.
“I should not have grabbed you as I did,” he said. “I just wished so badly to see the quilt, and I was afraid ye would be gone before I had a chance.”
Fingal barked and spun wildly. Thomas stepped across the room and opened the door. Blades of cold air sliced him. He closed the door and turned back to her. Despite the pleasant exchange, she looked ready to flee into the bedroom yet again.
He would never get her out then.
“If I come out,” she asked, “will you promise not to touch me?”
If she would come out and help him, he would have promised her the moon.
He settled for saying aye, then stepped away from her and toward the fireplace. He plucked the pot from the coals and set it to the table. She eased into the chair at his right.
He ladled porridge into two bowls. “While we eat, we can talk about what we need to do this day.” He poured two cups of tea. He sat at the other end.
“I saw some ginger downstairs in the cellar.” Her lashes fluttered uncertainly. “It would help with your cough. Shall I get it?”
“I would be grateful, Lass.” A smile slipped to his lips. “But do finish your porridge first.”
She stood. She let the quilt slide to the chair. “’Twill only take a minute, and the tea grows cold with every breath you take.”
Within minutes she was back at the table, a snag of ginger root in one hand and a grater from the corner shelving in the other. Light brown shards swirled into his cup and disappeared.
“How did ye know to add it?” he asked.
She set the root to the side and reached for the honey crock in the center of the table. “My mere and my grandmere were healers. I was to be one as well.” Her eyes quivered.
She eased the cup toward him. “There are actually better things for a cough than ginger, but ‘twas all I saw. Would you like me to sling your arm as well?”
“Ye can eat first.”
“Non. ‘Twill keep.”
But still, she did not move.
“I will nae grab ye harshly, Lass.”
She lifted her fingers to the knot on his shoulder. ‘Twas loose from his sleep thrashings and his battle with her, and she had little trouble pulling it off. She grabbed the ends and lifted them up over his arm and around his shoulder. She checked the tension and the height, then tied a knot at the top.
He relaxed the shoulder. The ache eased. “Thank you. ‘Tis much better.”
A smile teased the right side of her mouth, but she doused it readily enough.
‘Twas a pity.
She sat back to her seat and started on the porridge.
“By the way,” he said. “My name is Thomas McQueen.”
“I am Elizabeth Marie Johns.”
The deep rolling of her r and the singsong lilting of the French cadence teased his gut.
Her eyes caught his. Dark, thick lashes trembled. She blushed.
He had forgotten how inviting a lass’ innocence could be, how it stirred a man’s blood with promises only meant for one.
He fished for something to say, but two years of war and what he now faced gave him little to speak of.
Mayhap turning to the task at hand was best. “I thought to tear down the pickets in the old pig pen for wood.”
“You do not wish to chop down a tree?”
“My arm is not able. Ye will have to help me as it is since I am more or less a one-armed man.”
“I will help as best as I can, Monsieur McQueen, but I am not a strong person.”
She had fought him well enough yesterday when they had first met. Last night, she had leveled a blow at him with the wood and had then chosen to spend the night in a cold room alone.
And now, here he was, taming his darker side and using manners coupled with self-control that he thought he had lost long ago.
He liked it not at all. In fact, his skin crawled with the irritation.
“Oh, but Miss Johns, ye should give yourself more credit.” The words nettled past his teeth. “I fear ye are stronger than ye realize.”